Page 57 of To Seduce a Stranger

Certain that acting on his desire was the right thing to do? By no means.

“I want you, Charlotte. Make no mistake about that. But if you are not certain, that is all that matters.”

“It’s just that everything suddenly feels so . . . strange.” Her head tipped forward. “Down there.”

In the nick of time, he buried his smile in her damp hair. It was really a matter for pity, when he thought about it. She had been so determined to prove the gossips wrong about her moral character, she had never even let herself experience arousal. As he smoothed his palms over her hipbones and down her thighs, he urged them gently apart. Her shift, already hitched above her knees, inched higher. “Open your legs,” he whispered. “Feel the cool night air. Feel the heat of the fire against your skin.”

When he had given her a moment to accustom herself to the sensations, he spoke what he hoped were words of reassurance. “You’re wet. And I’m hard. That’s just our bodies’ way of saying they are ready for each other.” Another pause. “But we don’t have to listen to them.” God knew his cock oughtn’t to be trusted with making decisions right now.

She brought her legs together again, shuffling backward so her body was tight against his. “I feel you.”

“And am I—?” He swallowed hard and began again. “Am I to be accorded a similar pleasure?”

Slowly, she parted her thighs once more. “Oui.”

In the part of his brain not fogged with lust, her answer registered. Had the French word been a deliberate choice? It felt, somehow, like a sign that she was giving him her truest self.

With a palm laid against each of her legs, he swept his hands upward again and again, over her shift at first, then under, caressing the soft, delicate skin of her inner thighs, stopping always at the crease where her legs joined her body. When it seemed to him that the tension in those muscles spoke more of eagerness than uncertainty, he allowed himself to play over her dark, silky curls, his touch at first feather light, then firmer, until her fingers, which had been spread on his thighs, began to curl and knead, a silent plea for more.

At last, he dipped into her wetness. “Ah, Charlotte. So good. You feel so good.” He whispered reassurance at her ear, though she no longer seemed to require it. Her breath hitched as his fingertips slid higher, brushed against her pearl. Vaguely, he considered what her answer might be if he asked to kiss her there.

While one hand played below, the other rose to tease and pluck her nipples. Her spine arced and before he could wonder whether she would struggle to find release, after holding it at bay for so long, she was shuddering in his arms, swallowing a little cry of ecstasy. Easing her down onto his bed, he curled his body around hers and held her until she stopped trembling.

Just when he thought she had fallen asleep, she stirred again and turned in his arms to face him. “I—I didn’t know.” Tears streaked her cheeks. He kissed them away, hoping she would never have cause to regret her newfound knowledge.

In this position, there was no disguising his need. The swell of her belly cradled his erection, which nudged against her as if it had a mind of its own. But she did not shy from it.

The hand that had wrapped itself around his ribs slid upward to loosen his cravat, unwound the streamer of linen from his throat, then found its way beneath the collar of his shirt. Her fingertips swirled mesmerizing patterns in the smattering of hair on his chest; her fingernails lightly scored his skin. With whisper-soft lips, she kissed the hollow at the base of his throat.

“Will it hurt?”

In truth, he did not know. Deflowering virgins lay far outside his experience. He’d heard stories, of course, and expected she had, too. No doubt the disapproving voices who had found it necessary to keep her in the dark about the pleasures of intimacy had been only too happy to warn her about its pains.

He only knew he could not bear to hurt her.

“No.” A rash promise. How would he find a way to keep it?

By being careful, gentle, slow—the very opposite of everything his body demanded. The vision of her lying beside him—the glow of the firelight across her skin; her dark, wild hair streaming across his bed; her shift loose and bunched so as to hide almost no part of her—did nothing to help his case. Far from offering any resistance when he touched the hem of her meager garment and made as if to strip it from her, she rose to her knees and lifted it over her head for him.

Ah, but she was beautiful, from her deep brown eyes, to her large dusky nipples, to the lush curve of her thighs. Rising to his own knees, he tugged his shirt from the band of his breeches, eager to join her in her nakedness. Before his hands were free of his cuffs, her hands were running over his shoulders and down his arms with undisguised eagerness.

He tossed aside his shirt and caught her fingers in his before they could travel lower. Something about the position—kneeling together, hands clasped—made his heart leap. He wanted this moment, yes, but now that he was on the verge of experiencing it, he found he wanted the promise of something more along with it.

But an offer of marriage was out of the question. Had he learned nothing from the first rash proposal he had made? Was he willing to tempt fate again? He could not count on her to refuse him. And he was not sure he wanted her to.

He had come here intending to put an end to his father’s legacy. He had imagined himself prepared to allow the family line to die out, for the title to pass to someone else’s hands.

He hadn’t counted on Jack.

Or Charlotte.

As he raised their joined fingers to his lips, she lifted her face to his, waiting.

But what else did he have to offer her? Just himself. And beyond what he could give her tonight, he was still not certain he was a gift worth having.

At his hesitation, her gaze flickered anxiously over his face. “Have you—have you changed your mind?”

Which answer was she hoping to hear: yes or no?